221B Oneshots
by Quillinx
Summary: 221-word-long Sherlock drabbles about anything and everything.
1. The Pool

**I thought I would try my hand at a few 221B format oneshots, seemed like a good way to practice writing. ^^;**

**Pool scene. Spoiler for Episode 3.**

* * *

Tall, pale, with a smooth stride despite his long limbs and height. Face relaxed in a controlled way, more emotionless than anything, really. Not really calm. Never really calm. Achingly familiar, effortlessly graceful, painfully distant. Sherlock...

The microphone nestles against my neck, voice hissing out of it, issuing completely private threats. Every sound I make echoes in the silent pool room like a gunshot. I can feel the explosives strapped under my parka with every breath.

Hear his voice before I see him. Full of challenge, charisma. I'm cold all over.

Stepping out. Facing him. I keep my face blank.

His eyes widen slightly. I blink, and they seem to change colors in the shifting light- pale blue to pale green, a subtle change of light. For a split second, I almost dream that his guard slips down.

Speak the words that aren't mine. It's this or death, but watching his face makes me want to die. Can watch the words pierce him. Can't believe he doesn't know, hasn't guessed what's happening.

_John. What the hell...?_

Something vulnerable in that finely chiseled face, a raw hint of ...pain? Caring? Doesn't belong on that face, in those eyes. Makes me hurt. My heart. What he must think... of me.

Open the parka and reveal death strapped against my torso.

Watch him realize.


	2. See

**I'm not entirely sure what this is, but I wanted to write it. ...^^;**

* * *

I love to watch him work. The way his long, graceful fingers dance across the evidence, picking this up, dropping that, examining this with his piercing, pale eyes. Every movement he makes is so, so Sherlock.

The way you can see it all snap together for him, the flare in his mind, the click that he lives for. The sheer pleasure of understanding. Sherlock doesn't like to leave anything unknown, although he leaves plenty unsaid.

His eyes light up as he turns to us, frustrated by his mouth's inability to move as fast as his brain, linking all the clues together in a seamless chain like a protein code, perfect and perfectly unintelligible until he gathers the patience to explain it to us in our language. Flawless reasoning. Stunning intellect. A web of connections that nobody else sees.

He's already five steps away when he realizes that I'm not following him, and I realize that I've been too caught up in my own thoughts to notice that he's off again.

"John?" he asks. Short pause. Our eyes meet, equally confused for a split second, barely enough time for my heart to beat once, barely enough time for me to blink and him to not blink.

"I'm coming." Shake my head slightly. He's impatient to move on.

So much he doesn't see.


	3. When He's Not Looking

**Part of the scene in the lab with Molly & Sherlock.**

**Tried writing in 2nd person. It was a little weird ;w;**

**I find it hard to write from Sherlock's POV.**

* * *

_What do you mean, "I owe you"?_

You're thinking. Barely hear him. Would ignore him, if you had your way, but you know that if you do that, he'll just keep talking.

Notice that John's walking away and finally look up.

_You said "I owe you". You were muttering it while you were working..._

It's Molly, not John. You're a little surprised that you didn't notice. But only a little.

_You're a bit like my dad. He's dead._

_No, sorry._

Don't know what she's talking about. Brush it off.

_When he was...dying... _

You're only using a sliver of your thought stream to listen. You hardly process her words. You don't care what John says, this is a perfectly acceptable way to carry on a conversation.

_He was lovely... except when he thought no one could see._

What?

_I saw him once. He looked sad._

Where is she going with this? Seems determined to say something.

_You look sad..._

Surprised, but don't show it. Most definitely not sad. Sorrow is not an emotion you feel.

_...when you think he can't see you._

He?

...John?

Your eyes gravitate towards him of their own accord. He's shuffling through some papers. That expression he wears sometimes, when he's concentrating. He doesn't look up.

He doesn't see.

You realize what Molly is trying to say.


	4. Violin

**Sherlock's violin fascinates me.**

* * *

The bow sings across the strings as gracefully as Sherlock himself, sending sweet, sad notes floating through the dim room. His face is devoid of emotion, as always, but his music is full of feeling. He's playing from memory, standing tall, his lean frame silhouetted in the sleek suit he's wearing.

It's easy to wonder why he chose the violin, out of all the instruments available in the world. So common, the violin. Not exotic, or unusual, or unique. Yet Sherlock makes it so, just by touching it. Did he have to learn to play it; did he teach himself? Or was he as masterful at playing, from the moment he started, as he is now?

_I play the violin when I think..._ Some of his first words to me. _Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. _But I don't think the violin is a worst. It's a touch of feeling in his world of detached calculation. And it's certainly lovely to listen to.

_I play the violin when I think, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end._

I wonder if he's thinking right now. What is he thinking about that can make him play so sorrowfully, so gently on the curved instrument?

Despite all I know about Sherlock, I have to believe that they're beautiful thoughts.


	5. Hospital

_**Screw**_** this. I can****_not_**** write Sherlock Holmes! Apologies XD I spent a long time trying to get this right, and it just... doesn't work ;o;**

**Anyways, I enjoy putting John & Sherlock into a doctor-patient position. This is an imaginary scenario. I don't know.**

**Johnlock if you squint. I suppose.**

* * *

The sheets are white and crisp and perfectly clean. He opens his eyes. Traces the edge of the sheet covering him with one long finger. The door of the hospital room is closed. It overwhelms, presses in on him. The aloneness.

_the chase_

_gunfire_

_dark flashing lights nothing is clear _

_everything is blurred_

_adrenaline_

_hand slips out of his grasp_

_john?_

_and then the bullet slams into him_

_blackness_

He's used to it, being alone. At least, he thought he was. He's not so sure now. He needs to be sure of everything. He blinks twice, rapidly, quelling the panic again. He needs to know where John is. Needs to know that he's okay. Needs him. Needs.

Becomes aware that his breathing is deep and ragged. Makes an effort. Controls himself. Lies back onto the hospital bed. Chest feels stiff, bandages rough against fingertips. Sheets feel cool against feet. Air is still. Retreat into mind palace.

The door opens so quietly, somebody peering into the room.

"Sherlock?"

White coat. Doctor. Tests. He jerks up and breathes in sharply at the pain. Hurt worse than he had thought.

"I'm fine." Cold voice. Go away. Need to go back to being

...alone?

Pause. He looks up.

Figure in doctor's coat. It's John.

Relief forces its way out of his mouth in a sob.


	6. You Matter More

**Felt like I wanted to write this, but I have no idea what it is. It doesn't even make sense. But here. Take fluff.**

* * *

Heavy breaths; stunning jabs of pain through my chest. Stumble after Sherlock like a blind man, trying to keep up. He doesn't notice; too caught up in the chase. Blood soaks the front of my jacket. Dizziness drives me into the ground.

Darkness. Awareness of pain.

"John! What-" Abrupt pause.

"I'm fine," I mutter. "Go on... leave me here- a minute." Can feel him striding over to me, kneeling, examining.

"God."

Is it that bad?

"Sherlock," I manage. "The case..." I'm sure I'll be fine. We were so close. He ignores me, as usual.

I feel his strong hands beneath me, lifting me up. Fresh pain starts through my chest. "Sherlock," I choke again. Surely he can't mean to carry me during the chase? I can't possibly be that important to the case. He stands. The physical contact is comforting. I don't want to admit it. He begins running again.

In the opposite direction we had been going?

"What are you-"

"Shhh. Don't talk."

"Sherlock- what about the case?"

"Doesn't matter." Snarled. I'm so confused. This- an important case with a narrow time window. Does he have a reason for this?

"The case doesn't matter...?"

Silence. His feet pound against the ground.

"Sherlock?"

"You matter more," he breathes.

I don't reply. I lean against his chest and listen to his heartbeat.


	7. Your Perspective

**Mmmh... I had this image of John, just sitting on the edge of the St. Bart's rooftop- post-Fall. **

**uhhh so spoilers XD**

**I promise to try to write something more cheerful ;a;**

* * *

John doesn't know if he's allowed up here. Sherlock... was up here, of course. But Sherlock wouldn't care about the rules.

It's windy and cool, a dizzying sense of height if he looks down from the edge of the building- St. Bart's. Cars go by below, sleek black taxis that give him a pang to look at. He's tried to find the exact spot Sherlock's shoes touched. His hands brush the cold surface; his legs dangle over the side. He's not here to jump, but he still feels a touch of panic at the thought.

He's not quite sure what he _is _here for, actually.

It's a little bit too chilly for his taste, but he doesn't zip up his jacket. He kicks his feet against the sides of the building, presses his hands into the rooftop, trying to reassure himself with the cold solidity.

If he looks directly down, he can still see the spot where Sherlock-

no.

This was such a bad idea, he tells himself, driving his hand into his forehead. It's impossible to forget about ...him. At this place. And it hurts more when he remembers.

He draws his legs up from the edge before standing. It was never going to be easy. It was never going to be painless. Knowing...Sherlock.

That's why he needs it.


	8. Family

**I don't know. I wanted to do something with Mycroft XD**

**Uhmmm, no pairings intended except I suppose you could interpret this as Johnlock.**

* * *

It was raining. Drops soaked into the clothes of the consulting detective and his partner, standing with the detective inspector as they waited.

Sherlock managed to look dignified, even while drenched. Beside him, John looked miserable, although he was obviously trying not to show it. Neither of them had brought an umbrella- probably, thought Mycroft, because of Sherlock's tendency to always leave in a blazing hurry.

He stood there with a file for Sherlock, umbrella curving over his head. He wasn't sure what had made him want to deliver the file personally. Some would have called it a whim, except that Mycroft Holmes didn't have whims.

Sherlock turned, his eyebrows raising as he saw Mycroft.

"You've got an umbrella, good," he said abruptly, taking John's hand and dragging him towards Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow. Lestrade hesitated, then followed suit.

"I didn't invite-" Mycroft broke off as Sherlock shoved John into the canopy of the umbrella. It was just barely big enough to shield the four of them if they pressed together, John between the Holmes brothers and Lestrade on Mycroft's other side. Sherlock had one arm around John's shoulders, and his fingers just barely brushed Mycroft's arm.

As Sherlock began interrogating Lestrade again, Mycroft reflected that for the first time, he felt something akin to being part of a family.


	9. Late-Night Texting

**I'm exhausted. XD I suppose that's where this fic comes from.**

**I don't know if Sherlock would actually let himself go to sleep like that. It seems a bit out of character. **

* * *

_John._

_-SH_

**Sherlock. what the bloody hell**

_Come down._

_-SH_

**Sherlock its**

**3:40 am!**

_3:46, actually. Get down here._

_-SH_

**No i'm going to slee**

***sleep**

**dammit**

_John, would you stop being unreasonable and come down here?_

_-SH_

**I'm not being unreasonable! You are**

**Asking me to come d ownstairs at 3am isnot acceptable**

**!**

_What is it?_

_-SH_

**Sherlock you're still awake!**

_Well, obviously._

_-SH_

**You n eed to sleep sherlock**

_No._

_-SH_

**please**

_I said NO._

_-SH_

**Im coming down and youre going to bed**

**Even if i have to drag y ou**

Sherlock set the phone on the table. Typical of John to ignore his request, then come barging down when something as petty as Sherlock's health was at stake.

Knowing John, it would take him about five minutes to get out of bed and pull on a dressing gown, since Sherlock's losing sleep wasn't as pressing an issue as Sherlock spilling acid on his hands (1 minute 2 seconds), smoking a forbidden cigarette (49 seconds), cutting his finger open with a kitchen knife (18 seconds)...

Unimportant things.

He _was_ a bit tired.

He watched the second hand move on his watch.

He let his head sink a few inches.

John found him, exactly four minutes and 34 seconds later, fast asleep with his experiment left on the table.


	10. (Not) Snuggling Up

**More fluff. I don't even. **

**ugh I swear none of my writing even makes sense any more**

**10 chapters hooray \o/**

**This one is Johnlock, kinda subtle, but uhm yeah. Just a warning. XD**

* * *

The taxi drove smoothly through the night- or, techically, very early morning. Sherlock wasn't tired, but he could tell that John was.

"We won't be getting there for at least an hour and a half," he said off-handedly. "So feel free to go to sleep."

John glanced at him in surprise, but said nothing.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was somewhat gratified to see John's head nodding onto his chest. He returned to staring out the window.

At some point, Sherlock felt something touching his shoulder. He looked round, expecting John to have tapped him, but instead he found that John had quietly slumped against his shoulder, still sleeping.

Sherlock's first impulse was to shove John away. But that would wake him up.

John had chosen to be with him at this ungodly hour instead of sleeping in his own bed. And Sherlock had told him he could sleep.

So Sherlock didn't wake John up. The light pressure against his side was unfamiliar at first, but he got used to it rather fast- in face, he actually began to enjoy it. It was... comforting. Soothing?

Which is why, when the cab pulled up at their destination, Lestrade looked in the window to find detective and doctor leaning against each other, _both_ fast asleep.

It wasn't snuggling up. But it was close.


	11. Photograph

**two updates in one day because I want to ;o**

**Also, something someone brought up in a review I wanted to address: no, I don't end each fic with a word that begins with the letter "B". (221****_B_****) I only do the 221 words thing. ^^; I didn't think most people would mind, since honestly I'm too lazy o But if you do mind, I guess that's okay, just wanted to say that I'm aware of the fact.**

**Post-fall, spoilers**

**this is based off the scene in ****_Study in Pink-_**

SHERLOCK: I'm not in shock!

LESTRADE: Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs.

**I always wondered what happened, did the guys ever take the photographs, and then I wondered- would the photos ever get back to John? **

**felt like that needed some clarification XD**

* * *

John gazes down at the photo and feels his chest close up.

And there he was again. Dark hair, falling into his eyes a bit, that pale face with those cheekbones. The expression of subtle disgust as he looks away from the camera- obviously a phone camera, because of the low quality. He has to repress a painful laugh because Sherlock would have been so disdainful of such an obvious observation.

He has very few photographs of Sherlock- mostly newspaper clippings and the odd shot that nearly gives him a heart attack when he's scrolling through saved pictures on his phone. He isn't sure whether he's grateful to or furious at the person- anonymous- who's sent him this one.

The familiar coat. A bright orange blanket draped around his shoulders, clashing with the rest of him. Sitting on the back of some kind of van, looks like an ambulance, maybe, because of the first-aid equipment in the background.

When he had first met Sherlock, people asked him how he could have become "so loyal, so quickly" to the man who had gone without having a single friend for almost his whole life. He always replied with a shrug and a laugh, because the truth was that he didn't know.

He'd like to go back to that night and find out.


	12. Wasting Time

**I always thought it was a bit creepy that Mycroft has hidden cameras all over London. :I**

**and I picture Sherlock as coming to live with Mycroft after the Fall, but idk xD**

**this is just fluff, I guess.**

* * *

Sherlock heard the knock, raising his head.

"It's 4:15," said Mycroft, his voice muffled from outside. Sherlock heard him turn and walk away. He waited until he could no longer hear the sharp footsteps before swinging off the bed and walking to the door.

The hallway was long, without windows. He turned the familiar left corner and opened the door.

Various screens lined the walls, but Sherlock went right to the one he was looking for with the ease of long practice. He glanced at his watch. 4:25.

He watched the screen carefully. A hospital, the camera capturing the front doors. People bustled back and forth, and a black taxicab rumbled by.

4:29

The doors opened, and Sherlock leaned forwards as a man walked out. Face set, not smiling, a neat army haircut and a slight limp. Actually, Sherlock was probably imagining the limp, because the camera didn't pick up that much detail.

The man paused, held the door for an old lady in a wheelchair, and then walked away. It was all over in less than a second. Sherlock sat back in the chair and sighed.

There was a sound from the doorway.

"I still don't see why you waste your time like this," said Mycroft with a touch of irritation.

"The time wasn't wasted," said Sherlock.


	13. Blood & Band-aids

**Oh jeez idk xD I had this idea and thought it would make a good 221b, but I really don't... even Sherlock wouldn't try to take a blood sample with a knife, right? **

**Oh, well, it's cute. To me. snickers**

**I changed the description; it's slightly less boring now.**

* * *

"John? Could you come over here a minute?"

John put down the newspaper and walked into the kitchen, coming over to stand by Sherlock's chair.

"What is it?"

Sherlock reached over the back of the chair and takes John's hand in his own.

"I need a different blood sample," he said, picking up the short knife on the table. "Hold still."

"Wha- no, Sherlock, don't-" John's eyes widened as he pulled away and-

the next thing he knew was _ouch_ and a lot of blood everywhere and

"Oh my God, Sherlock," he yelled, grabbing his hand and examining the heavily bleeding, jagged cut on his hand. "What did-"

"Hold _on,_" shouted Sherlock. "I told you to hold _still_, didn't I?"

"I'm going to _kill_-" John frantically pressed the edge of his shirt to the cut.

"Don't we have_ any _Band-aids?"

Eventually John managed to wrap up his hand with bandages from his first aid kit, by which time Sherlock had left the flat. So, cursing and trying not to use his hand, John cleaned up the blood and then retreated into his bedroom.

* * *

"I'm back," called Sherlock. "I've been to the store."

"You have?" John opened the door of his room and stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "You _never _go to the store."

"I bought Band-aids," said Sherlock.


	14. Show You Care

**wiggles**

**I don't know**

**another thing that just popped into my head. xD**

**I feel like John's a bit out of character, but I dunno how to fix it. Dang it, and he's usually the easiest to write, too ;a;**

* * *

John arrived on the scene just as Sherlock was storming off.

"Oh, what did you say to him now?" he asked Lestrade in exasperation, noting the resigned look on the detective inspector's face.

"Actually," said Lestrade, lifting both hands briefly into the air, "we were talking about you,"

"What? Me?" John looked at him in surprise. "What did I do?"

"and how he underappreciates you all the time," continued Lestrade, plowing right through John's sentence. "and how he ought to-"

"_What_ did you do?" yelped John, sounding appalled.

"-show that he cares about you once in a while." said Lestrade, shoving his hands into his pockets. "That's all."

"Oh. Gosh."

John looked in the direction Sherlock left. "I can see why he's so pissed." He gave Lestrade a tired smile. "Look, I appreciate the effort, but... really, it's fine. I don't expect..." He paused, unsure how to word it. "I dunno, affection, or anything like that. Not from him." He shrugs, his eyes smiling as he looks away again. "We share the rent, I run errands for him, it's not like that..."

Lestrade hears the untruth in every syllable he says.

"I guess I'd better go prevent him from terrorizing some innocent civilian now, hadn't I?"

_I can see why Sherlock really does care, though, _thought Lestrade, watching him walk away.


	15. Music in the Morning

**I recently read a fic in which it mentions that Mycroft played the piano and found the idea adorable (You Took All The Bad With You, Right? by Castion-and-Clockwork, chapter 14, wonderful fic :D). **

**I really dunno what the reasoning for this would be. Post-Fall, Sherlock staying at Mycroft's. I wanted them to play together. I love the piano, I started playing when I was 3 or 4 xD**

* * *

Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the chair, absently fingering notes on the violin with one hand, the bow lying across his knees. Obviously, he hears Mycroft entering-

_wearing his shoes that make the louder sounds on the floor on a new diet doesn't like it his gait is annoyed he's been doing nothing but sitting around for the past, maybe, hour or so_

-but doesn't turn around, he doesn't need to see Mycroft's face this early in the morning.

"Good morning, brother dear. We're feeling especially musical today, are we?" Mycroft is being sarcastic- Sherlock has played the violin every day since he got here.

He swings around; obviously Mycroft isn't going to make it easy to ignore him and he doesn't want to play games.

"And you've found a piano part, how lovely. Nobody here to play it, though. Would you like me to find someone who can?"

Sherlock gestures towards the dusty piano. "Why don't you play it?"

Mycroft's eyebrows go up just a few centimeters. "Sherlock, I haven't played in years."

They stare at each other for a few moments. Mycroft sits down at the piano bench and examines the sheet music.

"I could probably play this," he concedes, looking up at Sherlock.

Each of them reads the other's body language to make for a simultaneous beginning.


	16. Fine

**bites lip**

**post-Fall**

* * *

"John." When John doesn't answer, Sherlock irritably pokes his head back into the room. "John!"

"What!" comes a muffled voice from the couch.

"Hurry up!" says Sherlock impatiently. There's a rustling sound and John's head shows up over the top of the couch. Sleepy eyes.

"Hurry up for what?" he asks in confusion.

"We're leaving! A new case!"

"You never told me we were leaving!"

"Didn't I?"

"No!"

"Well, you should have-" Sherlock stops abruptly because he realizes how stupid _you should have read my mind_ would sound. John guesses anyways, judging from the huff and the way he throws himself back on the cushions.

"I'm not coming."

"_What?"_ Sherlock's taken off-guard. "Of course you have to come!"

"Who says?"

"I say!"

John groans. "I'm not coming, Sherlock."

"No," snaps Sherlock, gripping the doorframe with his right hand.

"Why not," yells John in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. "You'll be _fine _without me!"

"No, I _won't_," says Sherlock in a quiet voice.

"How the hell do you know that," says John, turning around again to face him.

"From experience."

There's a short pause and John blinks a few times. Sherlock just has time to begin to think that it may have been a mistake to say it before John leaps up and goes to get his coat.


	17. Kissing or Killing

**Oh gosh I don't even know xD slash Sebastian x Jim**

**I don't actually know much about Sebastian Moran. I wish I did ;a;**

**It was fun to write. **

**Maybe this should be rated T. ;u; idk**

* * *

Quick pecks on the lips in between chases and glimpses of gray business suits. High-ranking executive orders and hair-sensitive triggers on guns. Blood, splattered on the crime scene and blood, tasted in the mouth when he bites down on my lip like _that_- two completely different things.

He knew that I loved him, even though I tried to hide it. Jim Moriarty is clever that way. I was just another employee. He sees people as disposable plastic knives. He lies to manipulate them into dancing the way he wants. I would know.

The way he grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me into a kiss was no lie.

He does not tiptoe around subjects. It's no use trying to avoid him, especially for me. Cryptic text messages. I am not your obsession. I am not Sherlock Holmes. I don't know what this means.

_L O V E_

_-JM_

I'm your sniper not your boyfriend and goddamnit no I didn't mean I don't want and stop doing that with your hands yes I'm gay do you meant that you're oh my God hell no don't use that as a threat you know I need the money and I think that's close enough oh shit what are you doing what

Killing. Kissing. I can do both for Jim Moriarty.


	18. Lazy

**random fluff ;u;**

**I suppose this is implied-Johnlock. Or just close-snuggly friendship, whichever you prefer. ;o**

* * *

"It's cold," says Sherlock, snuggling even closer. John sighs.

"I know it's cold," he says, wiggling around a little inside the shared blanket. "But you're squishing me."

"'s warmer this way," muttered Sherlock, burying his face in John's shoulder.

"Mhm," says John patiently, pulling the blanket around himself. The sound of a phone buzzing echoes through the flat- Sherlock's.

"Can you get me my phone," says Sherlock, not a question, mumbling into John's sleeve.

"Get it yourself," replies John, looking down at him.

"But I don't want to," complains Sherlock.

"Fine, then." John rolls his eyes.

"But I need it!" moans Sherlock, glaring across the room at the phone.

"Then go get it!"

"But I don't want to!"

John throws his hands up in the air.

"Why can't you get your phone that's sitting right across the room by yourself!" he demands.

"Never mind," says Sherlock sulkily. "It stopped ringing."

"Go see who called," says John in exasperation.

"No," refuses Sherlock.

A long pause.

"Fine, I'll do it!" Mostly to avoid more bickering, John heaves himself out of the warm blanket nest and goes to check the phone.

"Lestrade," he calls. "Left a message."

"Sherlock?" Walking back over to the couch, he finds Sherlock fast asleep, curled up in the warm spot where John had been just a few seconds ago.


	19. Dog Tags

**I think the idea of Sherlock wearing John's dog tags from the army is adorable, and I just realized that Seb would have them too ;o So obviously Jim wears Seb's, because that's just cute and I ship them ;o;**

**Inspired by a few chapters from The Same Situations of Six Different Men, by jamesgatz1925. I get inspired by other writers a lot ;u;**

**Johnlock, Jim x Seb, both indirect I guess xD Take it as you will.**

**Just a random situation where Jim has Sherlock as a prisoner.**

* * *

"You really are attached to him," says Jim, pacing around Sherlock like a shark. "Rather silly, but I suppose we all have our little... pet interests."

"He's not my pet," grinds out Sherlock. "He's my assistant. And _nothing _else."

"Oh, really?" Jim raises one eyebrow.

Sherlock considers for a moment.

"I'm _his _friend," he concedes. Jim bursts out laughing.

"So absurdly cocky," he chuckles, as if he had just watched an animal perform an amusing trick. "But I won't have you telling such lies underneath my roof, Sherlock Holmes."

"What do you mean." Sherlock keeps his face studiously blank.

"You care about him more than you let on," says Jim.

"Is that what you'd like to think?" Sherlock manages to sound condescending even while handcuffed to the floor.

Jim stops pacing around Sherlock and reaches over, bending down to grab something around Sherlock's neck.

"You even wear his dog tags. How... _sweet._" A clink as he draws them out from beneath Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. As Jim begins to straighten up again, Sherlock reaches out lightning-fast and takes hold of something around Jim's neck.

Dog tags.

Sherlock can make out the name _Sebastian Moran_.

He meets Jim's gaze.

After a short pause, both men let go and Jim backs away, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.


	20. Not Anthea

**I always liked "Anthea". ;o**

**I don't know. Angst-y mood and I wanted to write something with Mycroft. No implications, just... idek. x"D**

* * *

She was always so composed, he thought, hands resting softly on top of each other as he gazed down. Not cold, exactly, sometimes even playful, that slightly amused smile dancing on her lips at times. Her dark hair falling around her face like curtains on either side.

He hadn't expected her to die so quickly, no act of heroism- who would do that for Mycroft Holmes?- just a twist of fate, really, that she had been sitting beside him in the private taxi when the shot had come through the window and she had fallen against his shoulder heavily and he had turned in shock- what are you doing!- and then she had looked up at him with nothing but fear in her eyes.

Well. Perhaps not only fear. Maybe just the slightest hint of- trust?

Except not trust in him, because that was simply irrational.

He sat in the car and realized that he didn't know who her parents were.

Working for him had been her whole life, more than he had realized. There was nobody to come to her funeral except for him. Nobody wept for her, because crying wasn't something that Mycroft did.

Except that shedding a single, quiet tear by her simple coffin was _crying_, the same way that Anthea had been _just_ an employee.


	21. Call Him

**Sherlolly. Challenge from my friend Misty ;x;**

**I had a hard time with this... xD **

**anyways. Texts between John and Molly...**

* * *

**Hey, Sherlock wanted you to know that he's finished with the new body at the morgue.**

_Ok! Thank you, John._

**No problem. Why weren't you there?**

_I had a, thing to go to._

**Sherlock noticed, you know.**

_He did?_

**He complained about the coffee I made. Said it wasn't as good as yours.**

_Oh… he did? Really?_

**And then he snapped at me and said we should leave early.**

_Well… that's sort of… surprising!_

**Not really. Anyways, why don't you give him a call?**

_Oh! A call…? I mean, should I?_

**Why not? He obviously misses you. Oh, he's yelling for me, better go. Give him that call! Oh, and don't tell him I said anything.**

_I_

_okay?_

John puts down his phone and walks into the living room.

"Pass me that pen, won't you?" Sherlock says distractedly, gesturing in the general direction of the desk. John sighs and goes over to it. "Who were you texting?"

"Molly," said John, picking up the pen and tossing it to Sherlock, who catches it deftly and then looks up at him.

"Really? What did she say?" A little too much forced indifference in his voice.

"Not much. I just…" John pauses as Sherlock's phone rings. "Better get that, hadn't you?" he says, smiling slightly and turning away as Sherlock picks up the phone.


End file.
